


Richie Isn't Doing Too Well

by th3d3adb0y



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, I'm sorry but i was sad so you'll be sad too, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Other, Post-Canon, Sad Gay Richie Tozier, This is not Happy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26375281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th3d3adb0y/pseuds/th3d3adb0y
Summary: Richie was doing fine, all things considered. Two of his best friends were dead, but he was still kicking, still somewhat functioning. He wasn’t completely ashamed of his sexuality anymore, although he’d yet to really come out. Then again, there really didn’t seem to be much of a point, considering the love of his life was dead and no one else could ever hold a candle to Eddie.Please read the endnotes for more in-depth trigger warnings. I wrote this when I was having a hard time and I would hate to hurt anyone. Please take care of yourselves <3
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Richie Isn't Doing Too Well

Richie was doing fine, all things considered. Two of his best friends were dead, but he was still kicking, still somewhat functioning. He wasn’t completely ashamed of his sexuality anymore, although he’d yet to really come out. Then again, there really didn’t seem to be much of a point, considering the love of his life was dead and no one else could ever hold a candle to Eddie.   
After everything went down, after they’d left Eddie under a pile of rubble, Richie had felt numb. He had wanted to be the one to call Eddie’s wife, to tell her that he was gone and he was so so sorry, but he couldn’t speak. Instead, Bev had called her and explained the situation as much as she could. He wasn’t really sure how that had gone, but he did know that they were not invited to his funeral service.   
When they were leaving Derry, Richie had gone to gather Eddie’s things, wanting to say a final goodbye. He had ended up lying on the perfectly made bed, clutching one of his shirts to his chest and sobbing. He couldn’t find it in himself to return the shirt, so he had kept it, stuffing it in his own suitcase. If anyone noticed, they didn’t mention it.   
The other Losers had been hesitant to let him go back home alone, offering for him to stay with them or for one of them to go with him to LA, but he had refused. He didn’t want to be around anyone. He just wanted to go home. He couldn’t stand Bev and Ben or Bill and Mike’s happiness, but more than that, he didn’t want to ruin it. He was glad they had managed to find each other, that their Post Derry lives would be better than the ones they had lived before, but he also couldn’t stop the jealousy which coiled in his belly, ready to strike. He just wanted to yell at them for being… happy. For not being alone and for leaving him to be alone.   
It wasn’t like his life was worse than before. He now had friends, something he hadn’t really had since Derry the first time around. The problem was, he now knew that he was missing people. He knew specifically that he was missing two of his favorite people in the world and that he would never get them back. That he had never gotten to meet adult Stan and that he had never told Eds how he felt about him. Never told him that he was in love with him.   
Before leaving Derry for good, he had gone to the kissing bridge to return to his secret declaration of love, the one he had sworn to show Eddie once they’d killed It for real, and had recarved the letters there, tears falling down his face. It felt like as much of a goodbye as he was going to get. 

The others called him regularly, checking-in to see how he was doing, never mentioning his name but it was always there under their casual concern. He told them that he was planning a comeback tour, though, in reality, he had blocked Steve’s number and was dodging any and all questions from people in the industry about where he was and what had happened.   
Bev suggested therapy, along with Mike, but he just brushed the recommendation away. He didn’t know how he could delve into his trauma when he would have to lie about most of it. When he couldn’t explain how exactly the only man he had ever loved was stolen from him, how he had never had a chance.   
He found himself drinking heavily almost every night, hoping to stave off the nightmares which had been plaguing him since Eddie’s death. The one’s that replayed him dying over and over again, just like in the Deadlights. The one’s where Eddie would cry to him, asking why he had left him there. Each time, he would wake up sobbing, feeling as though he were drowning in his own tears.   
After a while, he stopped answering the Facetime calls, instead only allowing voice calls. He knew if any of the Losers so much as looked at his face, they’d be on the next flight out to him. He loved them and he knew they loved him, but he didn’t want to put his shit onto them. Not when they were finally happy like they deserved to be. 

He was sat heaving into the toilet bowl, phone discarded beside him, and glasses hanging dangerously off his face. The phone buzzed insistently, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing. He chose to ignore it, instead getting back up to his feet and flushing. It continued to buzz and he snatched it off the tile, angrily turning it off and then setting it on the bathroom counter. He felt relief wash over him in the silence, and he decided to leave it there, for now, turning off the light and heading to his bed.   
He bolted up in bed after what was probably only a few hours of sleep, breathing harsh and panicked in the still night air. The sheets pooled around his waist, and he reached for his phone before remembering where he had left it. After a moment to let himself somewhat even out his breathing, he got up, heading to the bathroom.   
He turned on the light and stared at himself in the mirror, examining the bags under his eyes and the sallowness of his cheeks. He had an impulse to punch his reflection but lacked the energy to actually do so. Instead, he opened his medicine cabinet, searching for his sleeping pills. Once he found the bottle, he grabbed it and his phone, heading downstairs for a drink.  
He turned his phone back on and noticed he had a flurry of missed calls. Feeling obligated to do so, he listened to one of the voicemails. It was Bev and she was saying she was worried because no one had been able to get ahold of him. His heart panged with guilt, but he couldn’t muster up the will to call her back. Instead, he sent off a text saying “I’m fine. Sorry.”. Immediately, a message was being typed back, but he just set his phone down on the kitchen island, crossing over to the cabinet where he kept his glasses. He pulled one out and went to fill it with water, before spotting the half-drunk bottle of vodka sitting on the counter.   
He knew he shouldn’t. He could practically hear Eddie screaming at him about the health risks of mixing medication and alcohol, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He grabbed the bottle and headed back to his room, leaving the phone to buzz incessantly on the granite.   
He climbed back into his bed, grabbing the shirt he had stolen of Eddie’s and placing it on his pillow, as was an almost nightly ritual. He grabbed the pill bottle and opened it, shaking out a couple before popping them in his mouth and chasing it down with a long swig of vodka. He started to set down the sleeping pills before a quiet thought hit him. One that had been in the back of his mind since coming back home from Derry.  
You could just end it all.   
He didn’t normally acknowledge those thoughts, but now, after having been home for several months, he found it hard to ignore. The pull of oblivion seemed so desirable, so easy. Before he could second-guess himself, he dumped the rest of the bottle into his palm and stuffed them into his mouth. He swallowed them with more of the vodka, and then laid himself down, drink still in hand.   
He didn’t feel anything, which he knew was to be expected, but he couldn’t help the sharp disappointment he felt at not immediately going under. He chugged the rest of the vodka in desperation before tossing the empty container to the side. His head felt fuzzy and he allowed his eyes to fall shut, sleep pulling him back in. With any luck, he’d never wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> TW:  
> Richie is very depressed and turns to alcohol to cope. Suicidal ideation and implied suicide at the end. Lots of mentions of both Eddie's and Stan's deaths.


End file.
